0 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A   VILLAGE   SKETCH 


OTHER   POEMS 


CHARLES     G.     FALL 


BOSTON 
CUPPLES,   UPHAM   &   COMPANY 

©to  Comet  Bookstore 
1886 


Copyright 

1888 
By  Charlei  G.  Fall. 


TO    THE    MEMORY 


THE   GRACES   OF   WHOSE    MIND    AND    HEART    ARE 
THE    PRIDE   OF    HER   SON. 


623878 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHO  loves  not  laughing  brooks  and  shady 
dells  ? 

Who  loves  not  sparkling  draughts  from  moss- 
grown  wells  ? 

Loves  not  the  song  of  birds,  of  lisping 
trees  ? 

The  new-mown  hay  that  scents  the  evening 
breeze  ? 

What  fervent  heart  loves  not  a  rural  home  ? 

Loves  not  at  dusk  through  violet  vales  to 
roam  ? 

When  Autumn  tints  the  leaves  with  sunset 
rays, 

The  cattle  round  the  farmer's  doorstep  graze, 


I  o  INTRO  D  UCTION. 

The    reapers    bind    in    sheaves    the    golden 

grain, 

Big  oxen  homeward  tug  the  creaking  wain, 
What  eye  but  brightens  at  the  festive  sight  ? 
What   maiden's   heart   but   throbs  with   fond 

delight, 

When  harvest  moons  distil  their  crystal  gleams, 
When  dingy  lanterns  deck  the  dusky  beams, 
The  barn  is  piled  with  russet  sheaves  of  corn 
Kind   Nature   empties    from    her   sumptuous 

horn  ? 
What  peals  of  laughter,  roistering  shouts  we 

hear 
When  blushing   Ruth   unhusks   the   speckled 

ear, 

Contending  swains  demand  the  forfeit  due  ! 
'Tis  here  that  tell-tale  tongues  and  eyes  speak 

true  ! 
The  sun  that  browns  their  faces  warms  their 

hearts ; 


INTRODUCTION.  n 

The  breeze  that  steels  their  sinews  scorns  all 

arts! 

As  free  as  air,  contented  as  the  roe, 
They  eat  the  bread  that  thrifty  hands  can  sow  ; 
No  debts  nor  pains,  some  honey  in  the  hive, 
A  simple  country  life's  the  life  to  live. 


A  VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

'Tis    evening.      Night's    majestic,   full-orbed 

Queen, 

High  in  the  boundless  empyrean  seen, 
Is  silvering  o'er  the  river  and  the  sea, 
The  verdant  hillside  and  the  fragrant  lea. 
See,  where  look  down  the  silent  stars  above, 
Calm,  glowing,  constant,  like  true  eyes  of  love  ! 
The  firmament, —  a  vast,  inverted  shield, 
With  gems  bestudding  all  its  azure  field, — 
How  luminous  with  shimmering,  starry  dust ! 
The  rain  is  o'er.     The  fleeting,  fitful  gust 
That   shook    the   glistening   opals    from   the 

leaves 
Has  died  away.     How  Ocean's  bosom  heaves 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  13 

And  falls  with  peaceful  breathings,  long  and 

deep, 

As  though  some  wearied  giant  lay  asleep ! 
His  breath,  see  how  it  floats  along  the  river's 

side, 

As  would  some  serpent  o'er  its  surface  glide  ! 
It  creeps  along  the  valley,  skirts  the  hill, 
Obscures  the  bridge,  enfolds  the  drowsy  mill, 
Earth's  dusky  form  in  fleecy  robe  invests, 
While  Ocean's  Sister  in  soft  slumber  rests. 

Silence  is  Queen.     The  toils  of  day  are  done. 
The  kine,  returning  with  the  setting  sun, 
Have  now  lain  down,  embowered  in  fragrant 

sleep. 
Beside    them    nestle   soft-eyed,  white-flecked 

sheep, — 

Meek,  silent  symbols  of  that  loved  content 
To  rural  innocence  from  Heaven  sent ! 
The  farmer,  dragging  home  his  heavy  feet, 


14  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

His  children  run  with  outstretched  hands  to 

greet. 

The  lowing  ox,  the  merry  milkmaid's  song, 
She  trilled  in  cadence  as  she  tripped  along, 
The  twittering  swallow, —  these  are  heard  no 

more. 
Now  chirps  the   cricket   'neath   the   farmer's 

door; 
The   owl,  night's  herald,   pipes   his   plaintive 

wail ; 
While  twilight  draws  across  the  fields  her  veil. 

Beside  yon  road  with  stately  maples  lined, 
Whose  trunks  are  now  with  russet  woodbine 

twined, 
Not  far   from  where   those  arching  highways 

meet, — 

Once  trod  by  solemn,  Puritanic  feet, — 
An  ancient,  gambrel  meeting-house  is  seen. 
It  stands  within  the  forest-templed  green, 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  15 

Across  whose  velvet  lawn  loud  rustics  play 
While  twilight  lengthens  out  the  loitering  day. 

The  village  parson  lives  within  a  stride. 
His  joy  it  is  with  patient  care  to  guide 
His  scattered  flock  along  the  narrow  way 
That  leads  from  darkness  unto  endless  day. 
'Tis  he  that  cheers  the  lonely  widow's  lot, 
Reminds  her  God  a  sparrow  ne'er  forgot ; 
'Tis  he  that  meets  the  beggar  at  his  door, 
Divides  with  him  a  spare  and  simple  store ; 
He  grasps  the  tottering  drunkard  by  the  hand, 
Points  out  where  surging  breakers  sweep  the 

strand ; 
He  cheers  the  downcast,  holds  the  proud  in 

check 

With  spectres  of  the  soul's  eternal  wreck. 
I  see  him  now,  I  see  his  generous  face, 
His   stooping   form,   his   grave   and  gracious 

pace, 


1 6  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

His   locks   that    float    like   snow   adown   the 

wind, 
His    kindly   smile    that    speaks    the    saintly 

mind. 

Yes  !  now  I  hear  his  soft,  approving  word, 
So  often  longed  for  since,  so  seldom  heard ; 
I  feel  the  tender  pressure  of  that  hand, 
No  other  like  it  since  in  all  the  land  ! 
In  reverie,  see  the  stealing  tear-drop  gleam 
When  told  that  I  must  shatter  home's  bright 

dream, 

Must  woo  the  genii  of  some  other  sphere, 
Where  Fame's  proud  conquests  are  more  sure 

than  here. 

Farewell !  farewell  forever,  reverend  shade  ! 
Thy  form  Affection's  hand  long  since  has  laid 
Beside  the  partner  of  thy  joys  and  woes, 
Near  where  yon  mourning,  murmuring  river 
flows, 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  17 

Amidst  thy  children,  'midst  the  friends  loved 

best, 

Gone  on  before  to  their  eternal  rest ; 
Beneath  the  willows  on  the  silent  shore 
Thy  saintly  shade  shall  haunt  forever  more. 
Time,  like  yon  leaden  river,  still  shall  flow, 
Lethean  mists  dispel  the  long  ago  ; 
But  never,  never,  till  life's  stream  runs  dry, 
Shall  fade  your  bright  example  from  mine  eye ! 

Near  by,  o'ershadowed  by  a  monarch  oak, 
'Gainst  which  the  storms  for  centuries  have 

broke, 

Whose  giant,  gnarled  arms,  extending  high, 
The  woodman  and  the  whirlwind  both  defy ; 
Across  a  brook  that  bounds  with  break-neck 

haste 

To  join  the  river's  deeply  rolling  waste, 
The  village  blacksmith  swings  his  ponderous 

sledge. 


1 8  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

His  the  true  hand  that  gives  the  scythe  its 

edge, 
Builds   the   broad  wagon,    rims   its   rumbling 

wheel, 
He   fashions  tools,  and  shapes  the  stubborn 

steel. 

With  beard  unshorn  and  curling,  crispy  hair, 
With  sleeves  uprolled  and  swarthy  chest  laid 

bare, 
With  brawny  arms,  with  strength  though  little 

grace, 

His  blazing  forge  reflected  on  his  face, 
He  seems  the  counterpart  of  that  grim  god 
Who,  under  y£tna,  War's  mailed  horses  shod. 
He  is  withal  so  gentle,  e'en  so  kind, 
When  school  lets  out,  the  children  you  will  find, 
With  open  mouth  and  bright,  astonished  eye, 
Watching  the  flashes  from  his  anvil  fly, 
Or  playing  quoits  with  horseshoes  on  the  floor, 
Or  begging  one  to  hang  above  some  door. 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  19 

What  place  is  there  sere  Manhood  more  ad 
mires 

Than  where  Ambition's  day-dream  first  as 
pires  ? 

Where  Childhood's  rambling  energies  are 
taught 

To  chase,  instead  of  butterflies,  winged 
thought  ? 

The  school-house,  rosy  red,  stands  all  alone 

Beside  the  road  with  purple  thistles  grown. 

Here  Learning  dons  its  solemn  stole  each 
year, 

Here  thirst  for  knowledge  conquers  winter's 
fear. 

The  master  enters,  tall  and  gaunt  and  thin, 

A  stripling  seems,  with  down  upon  his  chin. 

At  first,  a  cordial,  welcome  word  is  said, 

In  choral  unison  the  Bible  read ; 

Then  all  repeat  our  Saviour's  hallowed  prayer 

Which  like  frankincense  fills  the  breathless  air. 


20  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

The   child  who   sips   such    crystal    fountains 

first 
For  passion's  pools  can  ne'er  acquire  a  thirst. 

How  school-day  scenes  revisit  Memory's  sight, 
Our  eyes  dilated  at  the  athlete's  might, 
The  runner's  flying  feet,  the  wrestler's  skill, 
The  boxer's  leaden  hand  and  iron  will ! 
Who  loves  not,  loves  not  now,  the  well-thrown 

quoit, 

The  flashing  oar,  the  flying  ball's  exploit  ? 
Whose  eyes  glow  not  to  see  the  bully  thrown, 
The   coward   scorned,  the   brave   receive   his 

own? 

Has  Age   more  wisdom  than   the  school-boy 

knew, 

That  Honor's  chaplets  only  crown  the  true  ? 
True   worth    prevails,    prevails   where    Truth 

holds  sway ; 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  21 

Where  Freedom  holds,  through  Treason's 
toils,  her  way ; 

Where  War's  wild  echoes  clash,  its  thunders 
roar, 

Its  lightnings  crash  and  screaming  bomb 
shells  soar ; 

Prevails  where  heaven-born  genius  draws  the 
line 

Admiring  ages  call  the  form  divine  ; 

Where  clarion  lips  proclaim  the  living  word 

Our  sons  unborn  shall  wish  their  sons  had 
heard. 

Within   yon  vine-clad   walls   the    churchyard 

lies : 

Who  walks  its  narrow  paths  with  tearless  eyes  ? 
Above  yon  velvet  mound  still  rests  the  bier 
Has  borne  so  many  footsore  travellers  here. 
As  we  approach  (alas  !  familiar  scene), 
We  see  a  long  procession  cross  the  green ;  — 


22  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

The  drooping  widow  see,  in  mourning  weeds. 

Oh,  how  her  heart  with  bitter  anguish  bleeds  ! 

How,  how  her  children  clutch  her  trembling 
hands, 

Their  thoughts,  like  spectres,  haunting  spirit- 
lands  ! 

The  brother  see, —  his  idol  dashed  to  earth ! 

The  mother,  too,  —  her  gem  of  priceless 
worth 

Now  sparkles  in  her  blessed  Saviour's  crown  ! 

The  father, —  hopes  like  blossoms  trodden 
down ! 

Across  his  path  the  roaring  tempest's  blast 

Has  swept,  has  left  him,  like  some  monarch 
oak, 

Shorn  of  its  branches,  shattered,  prostrate, 
broke. 

The  current  of  whose  life  has  run  so  slow 
No  ripples  have  disturbed  its  peaceful  flow  ? 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  23 

Who,  who's  not  seen  some  dear,  some  faithful 

heart 
Transfixed  by  death's  swift-winged,   unerring 

dart? 

How  oft,  how  oft,  must  Memory  recall 
Some  wasting  form,  wan   face,  some   funeral 

pall! 

I  see  a  crumbling  gateway  open  wide  ; 

The  villagers,  I  see  them  stand  aside ; 

The  sexton  and  the  clergyman  appear, 

The  bearers  with  the  consecrated  bier, 

The  laurel  wreath  a  sister's  hand  had  made, — 

All,  all  now  dim  in  twilight's  deepening  shade  ! 

I  see  the  shadowy  figures  pass  along, — 

The  old,  the  young,  the  pale-faced,  and  the 

strong ; 
The   men   who   knew   his   flaming    falchion's 

might, 
And  loved  him  for  his  lofty  love  of  right ; 


24  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

The  life-long  friend,  who  prized  him,  oh,  so  well, 
And  knew  of   golden  hours  no  tongue  could 

tell; 

Grave  women,  who  have  seen  the  brow  unbent 
That  through  Wrong's  armor  gleaming  arrows 

sent; 
The  child,  whose  face  had  caught  the  glowing 

smile 

That  oft  stooped  down  her  sorrows  to  beguile. 
She  laid  those  violets  upon  his  shroud, 
She   knew  the   head,  borne  high,  was   never 

proud. 
The  cortege  moves,  with  slow  and  measured 

tread. 

In  loving  circle,  with  uncovered  head, 
We  stand  above  the  yawning,  dreadful  tomb 
(That  close  Bastile,  those  walls  of  mouldering 

gloom ! ) 

The  dirge  is  chanted,  the  last  prayer  is  said, 
While  immortelles  we  shower  round  his  head. 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  25 

The   chains  thou  forgest,  Death,    with    spirit 

hands, 

Thy  cruel  chains  outlast  Cyclopean  bands  ! 
We  turn  and  leave  him,  leave  him  there  alone, 
Our  throats  too  stifled  to  express  a  moan ; 
Yes,  turn  away  our  faces  toward  the  night ; 
No   sun !     No   moon !     No   star  nor   ray  of 

light ! 

Eternal  winter  whitens  all  the  fields, 
Hope's  crystal  spring  no  living  water  yields  ! 

When  limping  Age  descends  the  hill  of  life, 
Footsore  and  jaded,  weary  with  its  strife, 
Scarred  like  a  Spartan,  his  last  battle  won, 
Kind  Nature  covers  with  his  shield  her  son. 
Not  so  when  ardent  Manhood  climbs  the  road, 
No  steep  a  hindrance  and  no  pack  a  load  : 
If   Fate's   fell   lightnings  flash   from  summer 

skies, 
He  dies  unseen,  with  none  to  close  his  eyes. 


26  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

There  is  a  lovely  spot  whose  sun-kissed  sod 
I  often  sit  beside  :  my  Fancy's  god 
Is  here  enshrined.     It  is  the  lonely  mound 
Where   many  a   night  (how   hallowed   is   the 

ground  !) 
With  reverent  knee   and  glistening  eye    I've 

knelt, 

In  grief  that  filial  hearts  alone  have  felt. 
The  phantom-form  that  Imagery  could  draw 
Is  all  the  semblance  Memory's  eye  e'er  saw. 
An  eye  of  love ;  of  kind,  unfelt  command, 
A  soul  that  swept  the  strings  from  sweet  to 

grand  ; 
A  smile  that  Heaven  to   earth   in   pleasance 

brings ; 

A  voice  as  of  the  sparkling  brook  that  sings 
When  rippling  rills  o'er  plaintive  pebbles  play. 

Ye  everglades  !  ye  sprites,  and  elfin  spray ! 
Ye  changing  vistas  and  ye  dancing  shades  ! 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  27 

Ye  templed  groves  and  stately  colonnades 
Whose  graceful  pines  their  leafy  arches  raise 
Where   forest   minstrels   trill  their  hymns  of 

praise ! 

Ye  were  her  inspiration, —  childhood's  home, 
Where  Fancy  with  the  wood-nymphs  joyed  to 

roam. 

Would,  would,  my  mother,  thy  lone  child  had 

known 
Thy  voice,  thy   smile   and   spirit   long   since 

flown  ! 

Had  felt  thy  loving  arms  around  him  twine, 
Had  seen   thine   eyes  with   affection's  lustre 

shine! 

Had  felt  thy  magic  wand  of  sympathy, 
Been  guided  by  thy  star  of  piety  ! 
Aye,  caught  the  spark  of  thy  heroic  soul 
That   burned   to   have  thy  son   love  honor's 

goal ! 


28  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

Whene'er  my  eyelids  drooped  with  childhood's 

toil, 

Were  books  a  nightmare,  life  a  noisy  broil, 
Oh,  could  I  on  thy  breast  have  laid  my  head  ! 
Before    the   kiss   was   given,   good-night   was 

said, 
Could   I   have    lispt   with    thee   my   evening 

prayer ! 

Since  disappointment  was  my  bitter  share, 
Could  I  have  shared  with  thee  youth's  load  of 

care, 

Could  I  have  whispered  in  a  mother's  ear 
The  sorrows  pride  would  let  none  other  hear  ! 

Hard  by,  but  farther  up  yon  brawling  stream, 
It  tumbles  o'er  a  dam  in  foaming  cream  ; 
And,  rushing  round  steep  rocks,  a  maelstrom 

forms  : 
Here  plaything  boats  are  wrecked,  as  ships  in 

storms. 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  29 

"Tis  here  the  dancing  moon  upon  the  spray 
In  dreams  has  figured  many  a  silvery  fay. 
'Tis  here,  within  the  shadow  of  yon  hill 
Whose  brow  the  moonlight  kisses,  stands  the 

mill, 

Among  tall  elms  in  garnet  robes  arrayed. 
How  once  our  fancies  frolicked  'neath  their 

shade  ! 

The  miller  here  from  morn  till  e'en  is  found. 
His  honest  face  is  known  the  country  round  ; 
The  merry  twinkle  of  his  laughing  eye 
Bespeaks  a  soul  that  seldom  draws  a  sigh. 
Do  not  his  jests,  his  stories,  often  told, 
Pass  through  the   neighborhood  like  current 

gold? 

How  oft  the  farmers,  come  to  get  their  mail, 
To  catch  the  gossip,  learn  the  latest  tale, 
How  oft  they  linger  round  the  miller's  door ! 
Around  the  stove,  within  the  village  store, 
Where  quibblers  don   the   robe    Sam  Adams 

wore, 


30  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

Although  the  justice  is  the  senate's  chief, 
The  miller's  wit  oft  brings  the  Law  to  grief. 

Our  life's  a  span  !     The  chilling  hand  of  Time, 
That  chokes  the  current  of  the  climbing  thyme, 
That  holds  in  icy  grip  the  torrent's  force, 
Will  dam,  erelong,  our  feeble  life  blood's  force. 
The  village  worthies  of  the  long  ago, 
Like  withered    leaves    beneath    the    sheeted 

snow, 
Are  veiled  from  sight,  they  moulder  'neath  the 

sod 

In  life  their  light  and  joyous  footsteps  trod. 
Their  forms   may   hover   'round   our  hearth 
stones  still, 
But  when  Affection  dies  Remembrance  will ! 

Long  years  ago  there  stood  above  the  mill, 
There,  where  the  highway  sweeps  around  the 
hill, 


A    ULLAGE  SKETCH.  31 

A  dingy  structure.     Here  the  law's  delay 
In  solemn  majesty  held  sovereign  sway. 
Within,  a  rusty  stove,  some  musty  books, — 
Blind  guides  through  labyrinths  of  quirks  and 

crooks ! — 

An  oaken  table,  crazy,  drunken  chair ; 
How  fumes  of  mouldy  age  perfumed  the  air ! 
The    floor    was    worn  with   half   a   century's 

tread, 

What  cobwebs  draped  the  plaster  overhead  ! 
The  walls,  they've   known,    like  battlements, 

the  jars 

Of  shafts  forensic,  speeded  for  the  stars. 
The   schemes    confided    to    their    dull,    deaf 

ears ! 
Had  walls  but   tongues !     Would  hearts  not 

quake  with  fears  ? 

The  justice,  crusty,  formal,  sage,  severe, 
Wore  golden  spectacles,  had  one  deaf  ear ; 


32  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

His  head  was  bowed  beneath  the  books  he 

knew ; 

The  jewels  of  his  heart  he  seldom  shew. 
The  widow  here  and  orphan  found  a  friend  : 
Did  not  his   shoulders  'neath   their  burdens 

bend? 

See,  where  he  walks,  as  silent  as  the  trees ! 
Who  doffs  his  hat  to  him  who  seldom  sees  ? 
Some  say  his  soul's  as  dry  as  prairie  dust ; 
Some  say  the  toils  of  love  he  ne'er  would 

trust; 

And  others  tell  about  a  sister's  son, 
With  whom  he's   seen  sometimes  in  sport  to 

run 

And  frolic  like  a  noisy,  roistering  boy, 
Enamoured  of  a  dog  or  some  new  toy. 

Still  others  say  there  was  a  haughty  maid 
(Now  'neath   the   maples   in   the   churchyard 
laid) 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  33 

Who  once  —  when  suns  were  bright  and  skies 

were  blue, 
When   cheeks   were   red   and   hearts  seemed 

always  true, 
When   youth's   bright  bow  of  promise   hung 

above — 

The  merry-hearted  student  dared  to  love. 
Betimes,  on  moonlit  evenings,  were  they  seen 
Upon  the  silver  river's  shimmering  sheen, 
Or  strolling  o'er  the  mead,  along  the  shore 
Where  all  is  solitude  save  ocean's  roar. 
'Tis  said  that  wild  caprice  dispelled  her  vow ; 
'Tis  said  her  haughty  spirit  would  not  bow 
Beneath  the  yoke  of  his  imperious  will. 
When  death   the  bow-string  broke,  he  loved 

her  still ; 
And  now    that    winter  bows   his   snow-white 

head, 
When  darkness  folds  the  earth  in  sleep,  'tis 

said, 


34  A    TILLAGE  SKETCH. 

He  walks  beside  her  grave,  repentant  man  ! 
And  seeks,  betimes,  such  comfort  as  he  can. 

'Tis   Autumn.      Now    the   bending,    bearded 

grain 
Is   threshed    and   winnowed,   loaded    on   the 

wain; 

By  plodding  oxen  to  the  mill  'tis  drawn, 
And  ground  to  flour  or  changed  for  golden 

corn. 
'Tis   now    is    seen    the  full-mowed,    bursting 

barn ; 

The  thrifty  housewife  spinning  stocking  yarn  ; 
Now  red-cheeked   apples   groan  beneath  the 

press ; 

The  flying  shuttle  weaves  gray  winter's  dress. 
'Tis  now  the  rustling  leaves,  in  eddying  waves, 
Seek,  in  sequestered  nooks,  inconstant  graves  ; 
'Tis  now,  in  carols,  whispering  breezes  sing 
The  harvesting  of  hopes,  sown  thick  in  spring ; 


A    TILLAGE  SKETCH.  35 

In  gathering  conclave,  chattering  birds  delight 
Our  friendly  ears  before  their  southern  flight ; 
And  oft  the  furtive  line  across  the  sky 
Bespeaks  the  blue-billed  widgeon  shooting  by. 

'Tis    now  —  of    fairest,    loveliest    scenes    the 

best !  — 

The  husbandman,  his  yearly  toilings  blest, 
Around  the  bending  board  his  thanks  returns 
To  Him  who  blest  the  crop  his  labor  earns. 
Who  has  not  seen  the  farmer's  happy  home, 
Surpassing  all  beneath  earth's  azure  dome  ? 
His  sunburnt  face,  his  rosy,  blithesome  wife, 
His  children  bubbling  o'er  with  sparkling  life  ? 
When    darkness    floats    across    the    face    of 

earth, 

No  anxious  goblins  dance  around  his  hearth. 
The  sun  and  air  their  legacies  bequeath, 
Health's  freshest  garland  round  his  brow  in- 

wreathe ! 


36  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

Where,  where,  is  found  a  scene  of  such  delight 
As  greets  the  eye  upon  an  autumn  night, 
When, —  day's  drear    labor   done,   the    cattle 

fed,— 

Before  their  tired  limbs  retire  to  bed, 
The  father,  mother,  children,  all  enjoy 
An  hour  of  rest, —  rest  free  from  care's  alloy  ? 
Before  the  blazing  log  the  settle  stands ; 
The  younger  list  to  tales  of  fairy  lands  ; 
The  eldest  boy,  his  mother's  bright-eyed  pride, 
Whose  prayers  have  sought  his  careless  steps 

to  guide 

In  wisdom's  ways,  upon  a  book  intent, 
Is  wrestling  with  his  evening's  stubborn  stent. 
While  the  embers  flicker  and  the  taper  burns, 
The  mother's  frugal  hand  the  flax-wheel  turns. 
Beside  her  Alice,  grave,  some  garment  mends, 
Betimes  a  look  of  sympathy  extends 
To  a  neighbor's   son,  whose   furtive   glances 

seek 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  37 

That  Hope's  bright  blush  may  visit  his  wan 

cheek, 
While  with  her  father,  round  the  hearth,  he 

speaks 
Of  the  harvest  and  the  tempest's  recent  freaks. 

The  clock  strikes  nine,  the  children's  hour  for 

bed; 
The  sire  takes  down  the  book,  with  reverent 

head, 

From  off  the  shelf.     All  work  is  laid  aside. 
He  reads,  in  tones  dispelling  worldly  pride, 
"  The  Lord  my  Shepherd  is ;  with  generous  will 
He  leads   through  pastures  green,  by  waters 

still  ; 
I  walk  through  death's  dim  vale,  and  fear  no 

harm  ; 

Thou  art  my  rod,  my  staff,  my  trusting  arm." 
Then,  kneeling  all  in  reverent  circle  round 
The  shrine  in  every  pious  household  found, 


3 8  A    VILLAGE  SKETCH. 

The  father  begs  with  fervent,  trusting  zeal 
For  sweet  contentment,  whether  woe  or  weal, 
For  grace,  for  health,  for  pardon   for  each 

sin, 
Life's  choicest  blessings  upon  all  their  kin. 

Tis  homes  like  these  that  made  our  fathers 

strong, 
That  steeled  their  hearts  to  wrestle  with  the 

wrong. 

When  faith  in  God  is  from  her  banner  torn, 
Our  land  is  of  her  giant  power  shorn. 
JTwas  faith  in  man  that  set  a  nation  free, 
The  Pilgrims  guided  'cross  the  raging  sea ; 
In  war,  this  shibboleth  inspired  the  brave, 
And  steeled  their   hearts  to   dare  a  traitor's 

grave. 

It  made  our  modern  Cincinnatus  great ; 
Held  fast  with  giant  hand  the  helm  of  state  ; 
Ay !  made  Columbia  our  patron  saint, 


A    VILLAGE  SKETCH.  39 

Her  glowing  skies  with  Freedom's  flag  did 
paint ! 

When  God,  when  Faith  in  Man,  are  spurned 
with  scorn, 

And  sons  like  sons  of  old  no  longer  born, 

When  sweet  Simplicity  wears  mourning 
shrouds, 

While  arrant  Wealth  stalks  through  admiring 
crowds, 

When  cravens  spurn  the  prize  of  high  endeavor, 

Then  sinks  our  country's  sun,  sinks,  sets,  for 
ever. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

WITHIN  a  crowded  city 
A  fountain  may  be  seen  : 

Three  little  sisters  gave  it, 
That  fount  of  dancing  sheen. 

Upon  its  base  the  legend 
Their  generous  impulse  tells, — 

How  Love  like  sparkling  nectar 
From  childish  heart-springs  wells  ! 

Ere  morning  gilds  the  steeples, 
Ere  Commerce  crowds  the  square, 

The  farmers  with  the  bounties 
Of  early  June  are  there. 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  41 

What  lusty  peals  of  laughter  ! 

What  rustic  shouts  resound, 
While  drink  their  panting  horses 

Or,  eager,  paw  the  ground  ! 

When  gleam  the  rays  of  noon-day, 
Here  comes  the  lolling  hound, 

Here  sporting  with  its  splashes 
Are  laughing  children  found. 

Night  brings  the  merry  minstrel, 

The  jolly  beggar-throng, 
Who  all  with  glad  hosannas 

The  gift  enshrine  in  song. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

IT  is  the  ninth  of  April,  a  grand  historic  day, 

The  day  the  South  surrendered, —  how  Time 
has  flown  away ! 

The  room  is  veiled  in  midnight ;  no  sound  dis 
turbs  the  air 

Except  the  breath  of  anguish,  the  footfall  of 
fond  care. 

The  savior  of  his  country  lies  face  to  face  with 
Death, 

Whose  lean  and  icy  fingers  constrain  his  chok 
ing  breath; 

A  panoramic  vision  illumes  his  dreaming 
sight, 

'Tis  the  vision  of  a  lifetime,  a  life  from  dawn 
till  night :  — 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  43 

A  child  of  sunny  summers,  beside  his  mother's 
knee  ; 

A  youth  of  earnest  purpose  his  half-shut  eye 
lids  see ; 

A  grave  and  silent  soldier,  the  pride  of  the 
parade  ; 

He  rides  as  did  young  Cortez  'gainst  Mon- 
tezuma's  blade. 

He  sees  a   sun-burnt  farmer  within   a   rural 

home, 
Beside  a  blazing    hearthstone,  whose  fancies 

never  roam 
Except   where   boon-companions,   with    pipes 

and  foaming  beer, 
Tell   tales   of  wild   adventure,  sing  songs   of 

hearty  cheer. 

But    hark !    the    bugle   calleth !    Its   clarions 

wake  the  farms, — 
"  Your  country  is  in  danger  !     To  arms  !     My 

sons,  to  arms  !  " 


44  THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

The  roads  are  black  with  soldiers,  their  bris 
tling  bayonets  gleam, 

A  hundred  thousand  marching,  as  flows  a 
mountain  stream ! 

But  now  the  dreamer's  vision  descries  a  bat 
tle-field  ; 

He  hears  the  cannon  echo,  he  sees  battalions 
yield ; 

He  sees  the  blue-coats  rally,  he  sees  the  gray- 
coats  fall, 

The  ghastly  dead  and  dying,  the  "  stars  and 
bars  "  their  pall. 

Along  the  queen  of  rivers,  against  her  trem 
bling  shore, 

Volcanic  flames  are  belching  and  volleying 
thunders  roar  ! 

Hot  shot  and  shell  are  crashing,  while  lurid 
smoke  and  flame 

Are  from  a  fortress  leaping, —  a  fortress  known 
to  fame  ! 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  45 

Again  the  picture  changes.  The  Capitol  is 
seen, 

Where  rolls  the  broad  Potomac  through  fra 
grant  evergreen ; 

Not  now  fraternal  kindness  disports  in  festive 
garb, 

But  brother  armed  'gainst  brother  spurs  on  his 
fiery  barb. 

Brigades  and  solid  squadrons   are  marching 

out  of  camp, 
He  hears  their  stirring  music,  he  hears  their 

sturdy  tramp ; 
The  Wilderness  the  arena,  a  nation's  life  the 

prize ; 
Their   shibboleth    is,    "Richmond!"      Hear, 

hear,  their  battle  cries  ! 

For  days,  aye,  weeks,  embattled,  repulsed,  de 
feated,  slain, 

As  sands  restrain  old  Ocean,  their  ranks  roll 
back  again, 


46  THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Till  rising,  surging  higher,  with  loud,  resound 
ing  roar, 

The  foaming,  bounding  billows  sweep  o'er  the 
crumbling  shore. 

Now  he  sees  a  planter's  dwelling  in  Appomat- 

tox's  vale ; 
The  earth  is  piled  in  breastworks,  'tis  rent  with 

iron  hail. 
What  villages  of  canvas  !     What  hosts  in  blue 

and  gray  ! 
Why   halt   those   gleaming   columns  ?      What 

means  this  wild  dismay? 

Why  parley   yonder   chieftains,  those   heroes 

full  a  score  ? 
They're  the  victors  and  the  vanquished.    Thank 

God  !     The  war  is  o'er. 
"This  olive  branch  shall  shield  you.     The  sun 

of  peace  shall  shine. 
This  flag,"  so  says  the  victor,  "  its  aegis  still  is 

thine." 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  47 

No  lion  tone  and  bearing  !     No  eagle's  eye  of 

pride ! 
As  modest  as  a  school-boy,  the  conqueror  seeks 

to  hide 
His   speechless   joy  of  triumph   by  generous 

act  and  word. 
He  feeds  the  conquered  army!     The  beggar 

seems  the  lord. 

The  reveille  has  sounded.     'Twill  never  sound 

again. 
For  days,  in  martial  splendor,  three  hundred 

thousand  men, 
From  Vicksburg  and  from   Shiloh,  Antietam 

and  the  Sea, 
From  Shenandoah's  Valley,  from  Gettysburg's 

green  lea ; 

Those   cannoneers  of   ruin,  that  hurricane  of 

horse, 
With  Pestilence  behind  them,  with  Famine  in 

their  course ; 


48  THE  SOLDIERS  DREAM. 

Those,    those,   when    Pickett's    cohorts   were 

charging  wave  on  wave, 
That  stood  like  granite  ledges,  the  bravest  of 

the  brave, 

With  drums,  and  banners  flying,  with  triumph 

in  each  eye, 
In  grand  review  are  marching.     He  sees  them 

passing  by, — 
He  sees,  as  saw  Napoleon,  from  that  triumphal 

arch, 
That  night  in  phantom  phalanx,  his  splendid 

heroes  march, — 

The  heroes  of  Marengo,  the  lions  of  the  Nile, 
The  barefoot,  Russian   legions   that  could  at 

Famine  smile, 
The  guard  that  ne'er  surrendered,  Murat  and 

Soult  and  Ney, 
The  hounds  that   hunted  Blucher,  but  threw 

the  world  away. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM.  49 

How   like   a   shield   of   crimson   that  sun   of 

Austerlitz ! 
What  ghastly,  gory  phantom  before  our  hero 

flits? 
Do  not  a  nation's  idols  who  lead  her  lovers 

well, 
Shall   they  not   hold   her  sceptre,  in  halls  of 

purple  dwell  ? 

Have  not  the  hoary  Ages  their  victors  loved 

to  crown  ? 
Shall  not  the  flaming  falchion  still  win  sublime 

renown  ? 
They  echoed,  we'll  re-echo,  the  glories  of  the 

brave, 
And  all,  a  grateful  country,  bedew  the  soldier's 

grave. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  EMERSON. 

IN  Sleepy  Hollow,  'neath  the  pines 
That  breathe  a  dirge  of  tender  sighs, 

Where  Spring  her  first  fond  tendril  twines, 
The  seer  of  Concord  lies. 

Two  forest  monarchs,  sentinels 
To  guard  his  grave,  disciples  find ; 

The  breath  of  fresh-cut  immortelles 
Suggests  his  living  mind. 

Why  carve  that  name  upon  a  stone, 
The  spot  with  rail  or  hedges  bound  ? 

The  pilgrim,  from  earth's  furthest  zone, 
Will  find  this  beacon  mound  ! 


THE    GRA  VE   OF  EMERSON.  5 1 

Thou,  Nature,  thou  wilt  guard  his  grave, 
As  thou  hast  yonder  shrine  so  long ; 

Thy  princely  lovers,  true  and  brave, 
Romance  and  Delphic  Song. 


52  IMMORTALITY. 


IMMORTALITY. 

PALE  death  steals  o'er  us  as  a  spectral  cloud 
At  eventide  steals  o'er  Monadnock's  height, 
Its  form  enfolding  in  a  fleecy  cloud, 
Its  grandeur  veiling  from  our  straining  sight ; 
Yet  sunset  crowns  its  head.     No  storms  have 

bowed 

Its  towering  majesty.     Its  crown  of  light 
Gleams  now  more  bright  that   mists  conceal 

from  view 
Its  form  suspended  in  yon  veil  of  blue. 


I  NCR  A  TITUDE.  5  3 


INGRATITUDE. 

KIND  Norah  tried,  the  summer  long, 
Tried  in  her  kind,  delightful  way, 

To  make  love's  tendrils  grow  more  strong 
Around  two  sweethearts,  gone  astray. 

Did  she  not  list  to  each  complaint  ? 

Did  she  not  soothe  Inconstance'  woe  ? 
Alas !  as  waning  love  grew  faint, 

What  thanks  had  she  ?  —  "  Why  did  you  so  ?  " 


54  IMPECUNIAS. 


IMPECUNIAS. 

How  poverty  will  dwarf  the  mind, 
Dry  up  the  well-springs  of  the  heart ! 

It  makes  the  noblest  seem  unkind, 
And  act  the  cynic's  part. 

The  rose  that  grows  beneath  the  shade, 
Without  the  sun,  the  breezes'  breath, 

How  soon,  alas,  its  glories  fade  ! 
It  lives  a  life-in-death. 

The  lion,  chain  him  in  a  cage, 

When  he  would  roam  as  free  as  air, 

Does  he  not  gnaw  his  heart  with  rage, 
Sigh  for  his  forest  lair  ? 


ALICE. 

SHALL  I  ever  dare  to  tell  you 

With  what  trembling  steps  I  went, 

On  that  summer  eve  to  see  you, 
On  my  anxious  errand  bent  ? 

How  I  conned  my  message  over, 
As  a  school-boy  does  a  sum, 

That  no  words  should  seem  a  rover, 
Nor  like  timid  rabbits  run  ? 

With  what  throbbing  heart  I  waited, 
Ere  I  dared  my  favor  ask, 

Till  the  stammering  words,  belated, 
Seemed  an  awkward  rustic's  task  ? 


56  ALICE. 

Never  shall  I  dare  —  no,  never  — 

Tell  how  sweet  those  moments  seemed, 

Tell  how  loath  I  was  to  sever 

Joys  for  which  I  long  had  dreamed. 

When  Sleep  kissed  your  downy  pillow, 

Shall  I  ever  dare  disclose 
That  I  waited  'neath  your  window 

Till  the  laughing  moon  arose, — 

Rose  and  saw  me  'neath  your  casement, 
Watching  your  pale  taper's  ray, 

Glorying  in  my  self-abasement, 

Wishing  the  swift  stars  would  stay  ? 

Restless,  heartsick,  now  I'm  tossing, 
Tossing  on  my  bed  to-night, 

Hopes  and  fears  together  crossing 
O'er  my  half-awakened  sight ! 


ALICE.  57 

Fearing  lest  your  kind  refusal 

Meant  for  me  a  mild  rebuke, 
Hoping  on  a  reperusal 

Your  blind  meaning  I  mistook. 

April  suns  and  April  showers 

Shade  the  lowland,  crown  the  hill, 

Cloud  and  lighten  lovers'  hours, 
Always  do,  and  always  will. 


58  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 


WASHINGTON'S   BIRTHDAY. 

BELLS  are  ringing, 

Children  singing, 
To  commemorate  one  man's  name  ! 

Cannon  resounding, 

Echoes  rebounding, 
To  perpetuate  Washington's  fame  ! 

Freedom  obtained, 

A  republic  gained, 
A  cynosure  set  to  the  world ; 

Virtue  triumphant, 

Courage  exultant, 
A  national  banner  unfurled  ! 


A  VALENTINE. 

How  the  frown  that  my  hasty  word  brought 
Like  a  spectre  has  haunted  the  night ! 

When  again  you,  my  love,  I  have  caught, 
From  my  arms  you  shall  never  take  flight ! 

Did  not  clouds  often  darken  the  sun, 

Should  we  not  e'en  of  Nature's  face  tire  ? 

Did  not  discords  with  harmonies  run, 

Should  we  still  love  the  strains  of  the  lyre  ? 

When  we  parted  last  night  in  a  pet, 
At  the  words  I  so  carelessly  spoke, 

I  ne'er  thought  I  should  pine  with  regret ; 
But  I  now  from  my  trance  have  awoke. 


60  A    VALENTINE. 

And  before  the  whole  world  is  awake, 
While  the  birds  their  sweet  orisons  sing, 

A  true  love-knot  of  roses  I'll  take, 
And  into  your  lattice  I'll  fling. 

Should  they  chance  on  your  couch  to  alight, 
May  they  twine  round   your  golden-fleck'd 
hair; 

May  they  catch  your  awakening  sight, 
If  your  dreams  do  not  say  they  are  there. 


OPHELIAS  LOVE.  61 


OPHELIA'S   LOVE. 

MAD  for  love  of  thee, 
The  chords  of  life  distraught ! 
The  string  that  held  the  bow 
Has  snapped  !     'Twas  drawn  too  taut ! 

My  mind,  a  raging  sea 

Of  fierce  delirium, 

Sings  in  wild  despair 

Its  own  sad  requiem  ! 


62  A   MADKIGAL. 


A   MADRIGAL. 

'Tis  rapture  after  pain 
Your  too  proud  heart  to  gain ; 
To  fold  you  in  my  arms, 
To  revel  in  your  charms, 
And  know  your  love  is  true. 
Your  melting  eyes  of  blue 
Look  fondly  into  mine, 
Intoxicate  like  wine ! 

The  love-light  in  your  face, 
Your  long-withheld  embrace, 
This  first,  soft,  lingering  kiss, 
Oh  !  sweetest  of  all  bliss  ! 
The  promise  of  your  heart 
Till  Eternity  us  part, 
Make  days  hereafter  seem 
One  everlasting  dream ! 


EMERSON.  63 


EMERSON. 

PROSE  poet  of  the  adventurous  mind  and  heart, 
Brave  guide  through  paths  of  dim  philosophy, 
Stern  moralist !  Thou  from  the  Church  didst 

part, 

When  creeds  had  died  of  pious  atrophy. 
Thou,  Druid-like,  took  Nature  for  thy  chart, 
Interpreting  her  dark  poligraphy  ; 
Believing  Christ's  dear  Testament  was  meant 
To  be  a  solace,  not  a  discontent. 


64  TO  ANNIE. 


TO   ANNIE. 

You  ask  me  why  your  swain  has  fled  ? 
Why  eyes  that  glow  with  rapture 
No  bright  reflection  capture, 

Only  a  "  look  like  burnished  lead  "  ? 

The  bird  that  loves  the  mountain  air, 
That  soars  on  Freedom's  pinions, 
Disdains  pale  Fashion's  minions, 

Aye,  takes  his  flight  to  escape  her  snare. 


DIANA.  65 


DIANA. 

QUEEN  of   the  games !     Fair  mistress  of  the 

bow ! 
Sovereign  of  all  who  wield  the  sportsman's 

dart! 

Before  thy  feet  thy  worshipper  would  throw 
A  laurel  plucked  pursuing  your  dear  art. 

He  owes  to  thee  the  skill  that  nerves  his  arm, 
The   bounding    stride   that   covers   leagues 

with  ease, 
Sweet   health,    surpassing    e'en    the    Houri's 

charm : 
Here,  here,  fair  queen,  behold  him  on  his 

knees ! 

With  pious  gratitude,  he  kisses  e'en  your  robe, 
More  proud,  more  rich,  perhaps,  than   if  he 

owned  the  globe. 


66  THE  DELIGHTS  OF  LABOR. 


THE   DELIGHTS   OF  LABOR. 

WERE  Truth  a  wild  gazelle 

Bounding  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

Could  I  ensnare,  the  springe  I'd  tear, 

Aye,  once  again  embrace 

The  pleasure  of  the  chase. 

'Tis  hope  inspires  our  toil ! 

Hope  gilds  drear  labor's  moil ! 

What  tears  of  blight,  like  dews  of  night, 

Despairing  eyelids  shed, 

When  Elysian  dreams  have  fled ! 


A  RETROSPECT. 

I. 

FAIR  Hudson  !  on  thy  palisades  there  stood, 
One   glorious   autumn   morn,  a  youth  and 

maid, 

Who  scanned,  with  pensive  eye,  thy  silent  flood. 
They  seemed  the  wood-nymphs  of  your  ever 
glade  : 

His  sun-burnt  face  bespoke  an  Indian  brave, 
Who   had  left  his  bark  upon  your  tangled 

bank; 

Her  eyes  reflected  your  bright,  azure  wave  ; 
Her   blooming   cheeks    told   tales   of  sires 

who  drank 

The  nectar  Norman  nobles  sipped  from  rock- 
cleft  wells ; 
Of  knightly  chivalry  her  stately  carriage  tells. 


68  A   RETROSPECT. 

II. 
As  there  they  stood,  a  boat  swung  round  the 

cliff, 
And  bowed  its  gleaming  prow  towards  the 

shore  ; 

The  tide  ran  strong,  deep-laden  was  the  skiff, 
The  boatman  toiled  and  tugged  with  lusty 

oar. 
Now    scarce    she    moves !     Ah,     now    some 

Triton's  hand 
Drags  back,  along  the    shore,   her  leaden 

keel! 

But  see  !  whose  form  is  that  upon  the  strand  ? 
Whose   voice  ?      His   wife's  !      His   sinews 

now  are  steel ! 

When  this  these  gazers  saw,  Love  lighted  tell 
tale  eyes, 
And  here  and  thus  each  won  a  life-long  prize. 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE.  69 


LOVE'S  SACRIFICE. 

TRUE  Love  and  Friendship  met  one  morn, 
When  both  were  blithe  and  cares  were  few, 

When  Pleasure  filled  Youth's  golden  horn, 
And  Nature  wore  her  loveliest  hue. 

How  gayly,  swiftly  sped  the  day  ! 

What  elfin  sports  !     What  shouts  of  glee  ! 
They  chased  the  sportive  sunshine's  ray, 

Played  hide-and-seek  round  rock  and  tree. 

But  when,  from  dusky  pinions,  Night 
The  chilling  dews  of  darkness  showered, 

Then  Friendship  slept,  poor  thoughtless  wight ! 
While  Love  his  bed  with  violets  flowered. 


A   LAMENT. 

HE  has  laid  his  burden  down  !     At  last  he 

sleeps ! 
Those  weary  days,  those  wasting  nights,  are 

o'er  ; 

The  Nation  bows  its  stricken  head,  and  weeps  ! 
Could  nature,  feeble  nature,  suffer  more  ? 

Around  his  grave   shall   mourning  thousands 

stand, 

As  long  as  men  love  faith  and  manly  worth ; 
His  name   a   household    word    throughout   a 

land 
That  honors  high  endeavor  more  than  birth. 

'Tis  Learning  mourns  a  lover,  who  ne'er  knew 
A  holier  fount  than  her  Pierian  spring  ; 


A   LAMENT.  71 

'Tis  Charity  that  mourns  a  suitor  true, 

Who   brought  the   gifts   that  faith  in  man 
could  bring. 

Yes,  Statesmanship  stands  here,  with  head 
bowed  down, 

And  Friendship  with  Religion,  hand  in  hand  ; 
And  Eloquence  has  brought  her  laurel  crown  ; 

While  lowly,  sun-burnt  toilers  of  the  land, 

A  weeping  concourse,  'round  his  bier  proclaim, 
"  A  noble  life  excels  a  diadem  "  ; 

E'en  sceptred  princes  join  the  wide  acclaim, 
And  swell  the  chorus  of  his  requiem  ! 

His  brilliant  life  repeats  the  sounding  story, 
The  legend  told  of  Fame's  enchanted  halls  : 

There  is  no  royal  road  that  leads  to  glory, 
By  birthright   no   one    scales  her   sapphire 
walls. 


72  A   LAMENT. 

The  Chian  minstrel  and  the  Thracian  slave 
Parnassus'  splendid  heights  and  groves  sur 
vey  ; 

Aye,  hand  in  hand,  with  stately  Caesar,  wave 
Immortal  garlands,  tread  its  golden  way ! 

The  mother  mourns.    But,  oh !  the  faithful  wife ! 
She  loved  the   school-boy   with   his   ruddy 

face; 
She   held   the   lamp   that  lighted   manhood's 

strife ; 

Care's   wrinkled    forehead    smoothed    with 
tender  grace. 

How  oft  the  fruit  is  blasted  by  the  frost ! 

She  nurses  now,  alone,  her  bitter  grief, 
Recalls  the  sleepless  nights  this  bauble  cost, 

With  sad  remembrance  for  her  sole  relief. 

As  rainbows  fade,  so  fades  a  splendid  name  ! 
Since  God  pronounced  the  primal  curse  of 
toil, 


A   LAMENT.  73 

Though  Wisdom  points  the  hand  of  scorn  at 

Fame, 
Philosophers  still  burn  their  blood  for  oil, 

Poets  still  haunt  the  shores  of  Fancy's  realm, 

For  fame  the  sculptor  begs  one  hour  of  life, 
The  patriot  holds,  through  blinding  blasts,  the 

helm, 

The  soldier  fights  where  fiercest  swells  the 
strife. 

But  what  the  seer,  prophetic,  oft  has  told 
This    lonely  widow's   heart  now  knows   is 

true  ; 
These  thundering  words  have  down  the  ages 

rolled, — 
"  Shadows  we  are,  and  shadows  we  pursue." 


74  PRIDE. 


PRIDE. 

HAVE  you  ever  seen  the  tulip 

Hold  aloft  his  haughty  head, 
Gorgeous,  grand,  imperial  tulip, 

Rising  from  his  emerald  bed  ? 

When  the  breezes  chase  each  other, 
Bend  the  daisies,  pansies,  down, 

Bend  to  earth  in  filial  worship, 
Does  the  tulip  bow  his  crown  ? 

Flower  of  pride  !     Gay  flower  of  passion  ! 

Emblem  of  monarchal  will ! 
Born  to  shine  where  courtly  fashion 

Reigns  in  splendid  households  still. 


ALFRED  A.  75 


ALFREDA. 

THE  churchyard  is  spectral  and  dreary, 
The  village  enshrouded  in  sleep  ; 

There  kneels,  where  a  mother  lies  buried, 
A  maiden,  who  came  here  to  weep. 

"  Forgive  my  entreaty,  dear  mother ! 

Forgive  me,  as  I  do,  our  shame  ! 
But  hear  my  poor  heart  throb  in  anguish, 

And  tell  me  my  own  father's  name  !  " 

The  greensward  returns  her  no  answer : 
The  body  has  mouldered  to  dust ; 

But  the  spirit,  on  airy  wings  wafted, 
Has  flown  to  the  realms  of  the  just. 


76  BEATRICE. 


BEATRICE. 

PROUD  and  imperious,  passionless  and  chaste  ; 
Red  lips,  like  ruddy  coral,  without  taste. 


FOR  A   LADY'S  ALBUM.  ^^ 


FOR  A  LADY'S  ALBUM. 

THE  hand  that  framed  the  Universe, 

That     reared     Green-Mountain's     storm-clad 

dome, 

Has  fashioned,  too,  these  hills  and  dells 
For  Pleasure's  sylvan  home. 

Let  not,  I  pray,  the  hand  of  Time 
Erase,  as  Stillness  smooths  the  sea, 
The  happy,  peaceful,  sunset-hours 
In  Eden  spent  with  thee  ! 

MOUNT  DESERT,  August,  1883. 


TIME  CANNOT  DISENCHANT. 

You  never  said  you  loved  me,  but  you  were  so 

very  kind  ; 
Your   eyes   so   full   of  feeling,  and   reflecting 

your  bright  mind. 

My  aspirations  pleased  you,  my  faintest  wish 

was  thine, 
We  were  so  sympathetic  that  your  every  wish 

was  mine. 

Your   blush  was   so   responsive,  if   I  praised 

your  brilliant  beauty ; 
Our  hearts  seemed  so  enchanted,  there  was 

nothing  seemed  a  duty. 


TIME   CANNOT  DISENCHANT.          79 

Were  not  our  days  like  Eden,  when  we  wan 
dered  by  the  brooks  ? 

Our  days  sped  by  so  swiftly,  there  was  never 
need  of  books. 

Were  not  the  nights  Elysian,  when  we  wan 
dered  by  the  sea, 

The  faithful  stars  above  us  as  we  murmured 
poetry  ? 

Were  eyelids  ever  drowsy,  with  your  face  be 
side  my  heart  ? 

As  speeds  a  weaver's  shuttle,  so  came  the  day 
to  part ! 

Ah !  yes,  the  summer  ended  !  We  both  re 
turned  to  town, — 

You  to  your  far-off  city,  and  I  to  my  books 
bound  down  ! 


8o  TIME   CANNOT  DISENCHANT. 

But  whene'er  I  went  to  see  you,  in  your  charm 
ing  poet-home, 

Was  not  your  mother  gracious,  that  she  left  us 
all  alone? 

But   distance   stood   between   us !      Yes,    old 

Time  held  up  his  hands  ! 
Base  Mammon  shook  his  gray  locks.     All,  all, 

restrained  the  bands  ! 


How  slowly  dragged  the  winter  !     Now,  June 

brings  back  the  day 
When  weary,  dreary  toilers  from   dun  cities 

flee  away, 

To  find  surcease  from  labor,  let  fond  Fancy 

roam  awhile, 
As  sea-gulls  do  at  sunset  round  the  cliffs  of 

Desert  Isle. 


TIME   CANNOT  DISENCHANT,          81 

Fair  isle !     Thy  coves  and  grottoes,  thy  shores, 

hereafter  seem, 
As   Sestos  to   Leander,  a  foretaste  of  love's 

dream. 


POOR  TABBY. 

"  HAVE  you,  sir,  seen  poor  Tabby  ?  " 
This  morning  asked  a  child, 

This  bitter  morning,  early, 
In  earnest  accents  wild. 

"  The  ground  is  hard  and  frozen, 
'Tis  blanketed  with  snow ! 

My  Tabby  was  so  feeble 
Her  feet  could  hardly  go  ! 

"  Last  night  my  cruel  brother, 
Last  night,  unknown  to  me, 

He  says  he  brought  and  left  her 
Beside  this  lonely  tree. 


POOR    TABBY.  83 

"  Will  Tabby  not  be  hungry  ? 

Poor  thing !     Will  she  not  die, 
With  none  but  heartless  Winter 

To  hear  her  homeless  cry  ? " 

The  sobbing  words  she  murmured 

My  pity  scarce  believed  ; 
And  yet,  'tis  true,  her  brother 

Her  pet's  sad  death  conceived. 


THE  GOLDEN   DAY. 

ONE  day  among  these  changing  years 

Glows  with  a  golden  light, 
Amidst  the  smiles,  the  frequent  tears, 

The  sunshine  and  the  night. 

It  was  in  April.     'Twas  the  spring 

Of  life  and  hope  and  love  ; 
And  she  who  taught  these  lips  to  sing, 

Who  taught  these  feet  to  rove, 

Through  Concord  meadows  roamed  with  me, 

That  Mecca  of  the  mind, 
Where  first  our  banner  of  the  free 

Was  given  to  the  wind. 


THE    GOLDEN  DA  Y.  85 

Our  step  was  frolicsome  and  light 

As  thoughtless  lambs  at  play  : 
We  romped  and  laughed  from  morn  till  night, — 

O  happy,  happy  day  ! 

We  strolled  along  the  flowering  lea, 

And  picked  the  violet ; 
We  strayed  by  Walden's  placid  sea, 

With  gems  of  emerald  set. 

We  floated  down  the  silver  stream, 

Toward  the  silver  sea : 
How  gorgeous  was  that  youthful  dream  ! 

What  buoyant  health  and  glee  ! 

We  trod  the  famous  battle-field 

Where  fought  the  minute-men, 
Where  farmers  learned  the  sword  to  wield, 

And  died  to  live  again. 


86  THE  GOLDEN  DAY. 

Did  not  our  bosoms  swell  with  pride  ? 

Did  not  we  bless  the  dead, 
And  wish  we,  too,  like  them,  had  died 

Upon  a  martyr's  bed  ? 

We  saw  where  weird  Romance  had  dwelt, 

We  kissed  the  very  earth 
Where  Transcendentalism  felt 

The  travail  of  its  birth. 

Our  thoughts  were  filled  with  fairy  dreams 
Of  love  and  fond  renown  :  — 

What's  this  before  our  eyesight  gleams  ? 
Is  this  a  laurel  crown  ? 

'Twas  here  I  wove  of  violets 

A  garland  for  my  love  : 
Far  richer,  far,  than  coronets, 

It  lives  in  courts  above. 


THE   GOLDEN  DAY.  87 

'Twas  here  I  kissed  her  ruddy  lips 

The  first  fond  kiss  of  love. 
The  bee  that  June's  first  honey  sips 

Has  not  such  treasure-trove. 

'Twas  here  I  told  her  of  my  love, 
With  fervent,  faltering  tongue ; 

Our  vows  are  registered  above  ; 
The  breeze  her  answer  sung. 

Below  the  stream  of  Life  there  flows 
Another  stream,  called  Death  : 

The  first  with  buds  of  fragrance  blows ; 
The  last,  a  barren  heath. 

She  scarcely  lived  our  honeymoon, 

But  'twas  such  ecstasy  ! 
Before  her  clock  of  life  struck  noon, 

'Twas  all  a  memory. 


THE   GOLDEN  DAY. 

I  stand  within  the  porch  of  death, 
Her  sainted  form  appears, 

But  vanishes,  like  spirit-breath, 
In  bitter,  blinding  tears. 


A  THRENODY. 

(Written  on  revisiting  the  deserted  home  of   George 
William  Phillips,  at  Saugus.) 

How  often  have  I  reverently  trod 
This  sea-girt  intervale  and  velvet  sod, — 
As  level  as  fair  Cana's  threshing  floor ! 
Oft  seen  the  cattle  browsing  round  the  door, 
Sweet  children  sporting  on  the  emerald  lawn, 
Oft  heard  the  songsters  heralding  the  dawn, 
The  babbling  brook  along  the  flowery  mead, 
The  zephyrs  bowing  down  the  stately  reed ! 
How  proud  was  I  to  grasp  his  cordial  hand, — 
Warm  with  the  noblest  blood  in  all  the  land  ! 
To  list,  beside  his  hospitable  fire, 
To  words  as  sweet  as  ever  minstrel's  lyre  ! 


90  A    THRENODY. 

When  last  I  stood  beside  yon  wicket  gate, 
I  came  to  mourn  the  cruel  shaft  of  fate. 
The  brother,*  —  he  who  held  a  realm  in  awe 
With  thunders  fulminating  Sinai's  law ; 
Who  led,  from  Egypt,  Afric's  dusky  slave  ; 
Who  stood  triumphant  o'er  Secession's  grave, 
While  gathering  lowly  myriads  round  his  knee 
To  teach,  for  love,  the  Vedas  of  the  free  ; — 
He  met  me  there,  his  heart  dissolved  in  tears  ; 
Bereft  of  one  who,  throughout  threescore  years, 
Had  stayed  his  hands,  as  Aaron  did  of  old 
The  hands  that  guided  Israel's  wandering  fold. 

Now  stalks  the  stranger  o'er  these  lonely  fields, 
Whose  soil  its  incense  with  reluctance  yields  ; 
Irreverent  urchins  sport  beneath  the  shade 
Where  schemes  to  break  a  people's  chains  were 

laid; 

Grim  Sacrilege  sits,  raven-like,  on  high, 
And  from  yon  gable  mocks  the  passer-by ; 

*  Wendell  Phillips. 


A    THRENODY.  91 

While  Desecration  tears  this  altar  down 
Which  Freedom's  lovers  honored  with  a  crown. 

O    Time,    what    changes    have    thy    fingers 

wrought ! 

What  ruin  thou,  along  thy  track,  hast  brought ! 
Thy  vandal  hand  has  laid  Palmyra  low, 
Has  made  the  furze  o'er  Carthagena  grow, 
Yes,    razed    the    Imperial    City's    mammoth 

walls ! 

Before  thy  sledge  the  Coliseum  falls, 
Alhambra's  stately  turrets  kiss  the  sod, 
Gray  Pisa's  tower  trembles  at  thy  nod, 
Great  Necker's  Palace  crumbles  into  dust, 
Proud  Cheops  wastes  with  thy  corroding  rust ; 
While  stern  Niagara's  awful,  thundering  roar 
Shakes  Earth's   foundation,  gnaws   its  crum 
bling  shore ! 

Old  states  and  empires  fade,  like  mist,  away, 
The  firmament  acknowledges  thy  sway. 


92  A    THRENODY. 

When  Change  has  wrought  its  wasting  impress 

here, 
Is  it  strange  that  man  survives  his  short-lived 

year? 

How  sad,  when  Death's  relentless  hand  we  feel, 
The  blow  is  struck  no  necromance  can  heal, 
The  world  moves  on,  nor  mourns  our  hapless 

lot! 
How  soon,  alas,  our  faces  are  forgot ! 


ALGOUS  AND  SAPHIA. 

ALOEUS  loved  a  fickle  maid 

With  all  the  fervor  of  his  heart : 

He  thought  that  she  his  love  repaid, 
He  thought  they  ne'er  should  part. 

But  Saphia  fair  was  like  the  dove 
That  loves  with  other  doves  to  toy, 

Too  young  to  know  the  worth  of  love, 
Her  heart  was  shy  and  coy. 

Alcaeus  could  not  brook  the  smiles 

His  sweetheart  showered  on  other  swains ; 

His  jealous  eye  rebelled  ere  whiles, 
Rebelled  against  his  pains. 


94  ALCMUS  AND  SAPHIA. 

When  Saphia  saw  the  silent  grief 

Her  coquetries,  so  thoughtless,  caused, 

She  fain  would  fly  to  his  relief ; 
In  her  caprice  she  paused, 

And  tried  by  every  grace  she  knew, 
By  kindnesses  he  loved  the  most, 

To  hold  the  heart  her  beauty  drew ;  — 
She  only  held  its  ghost ! 

The  bird,  once  flown,  may  not  return ; 

The  swain,  once  gone,  may  stay  away ; 
The  maid  from  this  who  cannot  learn 

May  learn  some  other  day. 


AT  ANCHOR.  95 


AT  ANCHOR. 

OUR  shallop  now  sleeps  in  the  bay ! 

The  gale  that  has  furrowed  the  waves, 
That  has  deluged  the  deck  with  their  spray, 

Has  returned  to  its  home  in  the  caves. 

Far  richer  than  rubies  the  rest 

That  follows  a  boisterous  day, 
When  we  know  we  have  struggled  our  best, 

And  the  clouds  of  despair  roll  away  ! 


TO  A  LADY  UPON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

"  'Tis  true  that  I  am  growing  old, 
That  silver  threads  entwine  my  hair, 

That  Father  Time  —  his  heart  is  cold  !  — 
Must  set  his  stamp  on  young  and  fair ; 

That  Grace,  my  child,  is  woman  grown, 

Now  takes  the  place  was  once  my  own. 

"  Ah  !  yes,  'tis  true  !     To-day  I  add 

Another  to  the  many  years 
That  have  been  happy,  have  been  sad, 

Whose  page  is  wet  with  bitter  tears 
For  others'  woes  besides  my  own : 
But  a  merry  face  I  have  always  shown  ! " 


TO  A   LADY  UPON  HER  BIRTHDAY.     97 

These  whispered  words  I  seemed  to  hear 
The  South-wind  sigh,  as  once  I  went 

Along  a  crowded  city's  pier. 

What  answer,  think  you,  back  I  sent  ? 

"  How  few,  how  few,  till  strength  is  spent, 

Know  what  that  mother's  murmur  meant !  " 


A  TALK  WITH  A  TOAD. 

WHILE  raking  down  the  garden  lawn, 

I  spied  a  little  toad  : 
She  sat  beneath  a  bush  forlorn, 

Beside  the  gravelled  road. 

I  said,  "  What  makes  your  face  so  sad, 
This  bright,  sweet  summer  day, 

When  heart  of  man  and  beast  is  glad, 
This  morn,  a-making  hay  ? " 

"We  toads,"  said  she,  "have  sorrows,  too, 

As  great  as  we  can  bear : 
As  large  for  us  as  yours  for  you 

Is  our  great  load  of  care. 


A    TALK  WITH  A    TOAD.  99 

"  We  live  in  pairs,  the  same  as  you ; 

We  love  each  other,  too  : 
Just  now,  some  great,  big,  ugly  shoe 

Has  crushed  '  Smug's '  toe  in  two. 

"  What,  what  to  do,  where,  where  to  go, 

I  cannot,  cannot  think  : 
Sir,  what  will  cure  my  sweetheart's  toe  ? 

What  can,  what  can  he  drink  ? 

"  There's  rosemary,  one  nurse  prescribes  ; 

There's  wormwood,  says  another; 
A  third,  Miss  Wiseacre,  decides 

That  plantain  cured  her  brother. 

"  My  little  mate  sits,  crazed  with  pain, 

Beneath  yon  willow  tree  : 
What  herb,  sir,  shall  a  toad  obtain, 

When  doctors  disagree  ? " 


MOUNT  DESERT. 

YE  castled  crags  along  the  coast  of  Maine  ! 
Ye  giant  cliffs,  whose  feet  the  billows  lave, 
Whose  wind-swept  currents  sing  the  sea's  re 
frain  ! 

The  eagle's  eyrie  and  the  smuggler's  cave 
Are  all  the  homes  thy  fastnesses  allow  ! 

Thy  domes  and   pinnacles   gleam   like    some 

gem 

Upon  the  swelling  bosom  of  the  sea ; 
Thy  forehead  wears  a  glittering  diadem, 
Our  eyes  afar  some  new  Atlantis  see, 
Some  new  Gibraltar  greet  gray  Neptune's  bow. 


MOUNT  DESERT.  101 

Here   sits    the    Avalanche !      Here   foaming 

brooks 
Leap    dazzling    cliffs    or    dance    along    the 

dell! 
Here   shadows   haunt  still  lakes  and   sylvan 

nooks ! 
Here  Fancy's  fauns  and  sportive  wood-nymphs 

dwell, 
All  Nature  wears  the  livery  of  Eden  ! 


Ye  mountains  bold,  who  rear  your  cloud-girt 
heads, 

Serene,  sublime,  from  out  a  boundless  sea ; 

Whose  seamed,  embattled  sides  are  water 
sheds, 

Down  which  the  torrent  bounds,  unbridled, 
free, 

Through  wild  ravines,  to  yon  cliff-crested 
haven  ! 


102  MOUNT  DESERT. 

When  in  your  presence  how  the  soul  expands, 
In  adoration  of  the  Almighty  Cause  ! 
Thought  soars,  on  airy  wings,  to  distant  lands ; 
Its  pinions  sweep  the  stars  !     They  note  the 

laws 
That    hold    in    subtile    chains   yon   circling 

spheres ! 

From  your  bald  peaks  the  village  can  be  seen, 
Half  hid  'neath  golden  vapors  of  the  morn  ; 
The  drowsy  cottage,  peering  through  the  green, 
Within  whose  shadows  Happiness  was  born, 
Whose  peaceful  groves  Remembrance  so  en 
dears. 


MARGUERITE. 

You  ask  me  why  I  lead  this  life, 
So  wild,  so  full  of  bitter  strife  ? 
Why  I  am  not  a  happy  wife  ? 
You  wish  to  know  my  story  ? 

You  think  that  beauty  such  as  mine 
Should  not  be  spoilt  by  men  and  wine, 
But  round  some  cottage  door  should  twine, 
Like  some  sweet  morning-glory  ? 

You  wonder  why  I  never  try 
To  save  the  lustre  of  mine  eye  ? 
You  wonder  why  I  long  to  die, 
To  end  this  long  carousal  ? 


1 04  MARGUERITE. 

Why  all  this  glitter  has  no  charm, 
My  hectic  flush  gives  no  alarm, 
What  earlier  sin  occurred  to  harm 
A  holier  espousal  ? 

It  might  have  been  !  —  except  for  one 
Whose  smile  was  like  the  morning  sun, 
Towards  which  the  climbing  woodbines  run 
To  blossom  in  his  favor. 

A  twelve-month  since  my  mother  died  : 
'Twas  he  who  kissed  my  tears  aside, 
'Twas  he  with  sweet  caresses  tried 
To  lighten  sorrow's  labor. 

He  seemed,  aye,  felt,  as  sad  as  I : 
How  oft  a  tear  bedimmed  his  eye  ! 
How  oft,  how  patiently,  he'd  try 
Grief's  gloomy  gnomes  to  frighten  ! 


MARGUERITE.  105 

He  carried  flowers  to  her  grave  : 
How  tender  was  he  !  oh,  how  brave  ! 
When  Anguish  whelmed  me  like  a  wave, 
His  smiles  my  load  would  lighten  ! 

Ah,  blame  me,  sir,  if  now  you  can  : 
His  kindness  every  wish  outran, 
He  made  each  dreary  day  a  span, — 
Those  days  that  last  forever ! 


AFTER  THE  STORM. 

OUR  shallop  glides  over  the  seas, 

Glides  straight  in  the  eye  of  the  sun ; 

When  blown  by  the  whispering  breeze, 
How  faintly  her  ripples  run  ! 

The  Monarch  of  Day  sinks  down, 
To  sleep  by  his  consort,  the  Sea  ; 

No  clouds  !     No  wrinkles  !     No  frown  ! 
Their  breasts  from  anxiety  free  ! 

The  winds  and  the  storms  of  the  day, 
That  have  crested  old  Ocean  with  waves, 

That  have  christened  our  top-mast  with  spray, 
Are  asleep  in  their  desolate  caves. 


AFTER    THE  STORM.  107 

How  sweet,  how  grateful,  is  rest, 
When  Night  draws  the  curtain  of  Day, 

When  we  know  we  have  toiled  at  our  best, 
And  wait  for  fond  Victory's  ray ! 


JEZEBEL. 

How  every  honest  woman's  thought 

Condemns  the  painted  Jezebel, — 

Condemns  because  her  smiles  are  bought ! 

Can  all  her  stately  airs  excel 

The  faintest  blush  of  modest  grace  — 

So  timorous,  so  delicate  — 

That  steals  across  a  maiden's  face, 

That  almost  seems  to  supplicate 

No  eye  should  steal  a  glance  of  thought 

Or  admiration,  all  unsought? 

Can  all  the  treasury  of  wealth 
That  Crcesus  had,  that  Midas  sought, 
Prometheus  stole  from  heaven  by  stealth, — 
Can  all  their  pelf,  their  lucre,  buy 


JEZEBEL.  109 

The  smile  that  lighted  Heloiise  ? 
The  ray  that  shone  in  Clytie's  eye  ? 
The  song  that  made  the  listening  trees 
With  all  their  myriad  leaves  applaud, 
When  Sappho  sighed  across  the  lyre  ? 
Why  is  it,  when  the  wide  world  knows 
The  priceless  worth  of  woman's  love, 
What  happiness  true  love  bestows, 
Whene'er  the  bans  are  blest  above, 
So  many  wives  their  lives  have  sold, 
So  many  maids  are  bought  with  gold  ? 


A  DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

WHILE  lying  half-awake,  one  summer  night, 
My  chamber  scarcely  lit  with  Cynthia's  light ; 
While  Silence  floats  along  the  breathless  air, 
No  sound,  except  the  clock  behind  the  stair 
That  ticks  the  tardy  time  with  tiring  din  ; 
While  airy  night-thoughts  fairy  fancies  spin, — 
I  see  two  lovers  on  a  silvery  eve 
The  doorway  of  an  ivied  cottage  leave. 
They  wend  their  slow  and  pensive  way 
Along  a  wooded  road.     What  bird-like  lay 
Is  this  that  floats  upon  the  fluttering  breeze  ? 
'Tis  soft  as  evening's  zephyr  'mong  the  trees  ! 
'Tis  like  the  whisper  of  yEolia's  lyre  ! 
Or  like  the  vespers  of  some  convent  choir, 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE.  m 

When  cloisters  listen  to  the  curfew's  sound, 
As   Darkness    creeps   along    the    dew-sprent 
ground  ! 

What  youthful  grace  !  what  firm,  elastic  tread  ! 
An  athlete's  figure,  and  a  princely  head  ! 
His  eye,  his  mien,  his  manly  carriage,  say, — 
"  I  know  no  thoughts  that  fear  the   light  of 

day. 
Hope   is   my   star !     She    guides   the   eagle's 

flight ; 
She  guides  the  chamois  up  the  Alpine  height ! " 

The  maid  is  lithe  and  graceful  as  a  swan. 
Why   seems    her    step    so    languid,    face   so 

wan  ? 

Ah !  'tis  long  vigils  by  her  mother's  side, 
These  duties,  Frailty  never  should  have  tried  ! 
To  leave  the  suffering  bedside  for  a  while, 
To  walk  beside  her  lover,  watch  his  smile, 


112  A   DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

To  hear  the  rippling  music  of  his  voice ; 
To  know  that  she  is  jewel  of  his  choice, 
Queen  of  his  thoughts  by  day  and  dreams  by 

night,— 

'Tis  such  a  boon,  so  sweet,  such  fond  delight, 
Her  wistful  thoughts  forget  the  pallid  shade 
And  wasting  form  upon  the  pallet  laid. 

The  panorama  changes.     Moving  on, 
It  now  discovers  true  love's  wooing  won. 
Behold !  the  lights  are  gleaming  in  the  church, 
The  guests  assembled  !     In  their  choir-perch, 
The  village  belles,  enrobed  in  downy  white 
And  dove-like  modesty, —  entrancing  sight !  — 
Chorus  the  legend  of  the  love-lorn  knight 
Who,  in  the  tourney,  won  his  long-loved  wight. 
The  wedding  march  the  fluted  organ  speeds, 
While  Cupid  to  the  altar  Psyche  leads. 
On  wings  unseen,  'midst  soft,  admiring  eyes, 
I  hear  their  vows  borne  upward  to  the  skies, — 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE.  113 

Those  spirit-bonds  that  bind  a  man  and  wife 
Till  death  shall  cut  the  silken  cord  of  life  ! 


The    ghostly    phantoms    change    again.      In 

dream, 

The  glories  of  a  rustic  mansion  gleam. 
There  sits  a  stately  matron  in  the  door  : 
'Tis  she,  in  youthful  bloom,  I  saw  of  yore  ! 
Around  her  knees,  fair  children  are  at  play, 
Their  ringlets  golden  in  the  sunset's  ray, 
Their  eyes  aglow  with  deep  poetic  fire, — 
Can  sport,  can  frolic,  e'er  such  sinews  tire  ? 

Who's   this    I  see    beneath   the    lengthening 

shade  ?  — 

Night's  dusky  fingers  on  the  landscape  laid  ? 
Who  sits  beside  yon  sparkling,  babbling  brook, 
On  which  his  thoughts  are  fixed  as  'twere  a 

book? 


H4  A   DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

A  pensive,  gray-haired  man  :  he  writes  in  song 

Its  murmuring  music  as  it  sings  along. 

Ah !  yes,  'tis  he  !     Pale  Thought  has  drawn  the 

lines 

That  mark  the  toiler  in  her  mystic  mines; 
Has  bowed  the  form  that  once  was  so  erect, 
But  stamped  him  with  the  seal  of  her  elect. 
Yes  :  boyhood's  dream  of  fancy  is  fulfilled, 
He   has   won   the   glittering    prize   Ambition 

willed. 

But  ask  if  what  is  gained  is  worth  the  cost, 
Is  worth  the  servitude,  the  pleasure  lost  ? 
If,  now  the  cup  is  drained,  the  wine,  the  lees, 
If  on  the  bottom  still  a  pearl  he  sees  ? 
If,  like  mirage  across  the  desert  seen, 
Youth's  day-dream,  now,  is  not  delusive  sheen  ? 

Another  picture  steals  across  the  sight, 
Portrays   the   drama's    ending,  —  Death   and 
Night. 


A   DREAM  OF  LIFE.  115 

The  gathering  darkness  shades  a  grassy  mound 

Within  a  surging  city's  burial-ground, 

Where  bustling  thousands  pass,  with  scarce  a 

thought 

How  little  all  their  feverish  toil  has  brought. 
I  see  upon  a  mouldering  slab  a  name 
The  country  once  has  garlanded  with  fame, 
His  presence  hailed  with  rapt,  admiring  eye ; 
A  generation  bowed  as  he  passed  by. 
But  now  yon  curious  traveller  stands  alone, 
And   reads   with   careless  eye  the  crumbling 

stone, 

With  naught  but  mild  surprise  upon  his  face 
That  so  much  grandeur  fills  this  narrow  space. 

Ye  gorgeous  sepulchres,  how  frail  ye  seem  ! 
Is  not  the  pageantry  of  Babylon  a  dream  ? 
Have  not  Athena's  glories  taken  flight  ? 
Yes!      Lonely   Cheops   watches    out    Time's 
night ! 


n6  A   DREAM  OF  LIFE. 

\ 

Fame's  temple  now  my  fading  dream  displays  : 
I  see  the  names,  in  clear,  undying  rays, 
Emblazoned  round  its  walls,  across  its  vault, — 
The  names  of  heroes,  martyrs  free  from  fault, 
Of  patriots,  warriors,  poets,  sages,  men 
Whose  genius   swayed  their  age  with  tongue 

or  pen. 

By  night  obscured,  by  time's  corrosive  rust, 
In  cobwebbed  solitude,  'midst  yellow  dust, 
I  see  in  fading  characters  the  name 
Of  him  whose  dream  had  promised  lasting  fame. 
Youth,  wealth,  child,  wife,  love,  life,  a  sacrifice 
To  fame,    that   fades   as   rainbows   from   the 

skies  ! 

Could  men  but  know  how  soon  the  tear  is  dry, 
How  few  are  shed,  how  quick  their  memories 

die, 

Would  gilded  palaces,  would  empty  praise, 
Be  sought,  be  toiled  for,  weary,  life-long  days  ? 


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